"You? You are the one who has been sending me these beautiful letters? But when I talked to you earlier, you did not seem to sound poetic at all." Marigold looked at the boy in much doubt and nervousness.
Fasik's heart was beating in nervousness as the girl looked at him from head to toe in much doubt. He instantly cleared his throat, and fluently and musically started to narrate the poem he had just learnt, written by his friend.
"Her body is not so white as
anemone petals nor so smooth—nor
so remote a thing. It is a field
of the wild carrot taking
the field by force; the grass
does not raise above it.
Here is no question of whiteness,
white as can be, with a purple mole
at the center of each flower.
Each flower is a hand's span
of her whiteness. Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
